“But what if it does? That’s why you brought me, right? To stand real close.”

“I said it ain’t gonna happen, shrimp.”

From the horizon a mighty whistle blew, masking the constant chirp of woodland sparrows. Clay stood on the railroad ties laying coins on both rails. His line of coins grew in size on one rail, dimes closest to the engine’s approach, quarters furthest from. On the opposite rail he built a stack from the bottom up: quarter, nickel, penny, dime.

Clay retreated to a patch of weeds beyond the edge of the gravel. Gregory stood six feet from the edge of the wooden ties and gazed up the rails to the approaching train. Even in daylight he could see beams of light spraying from the engine’s big single headlight. He looked at the coins arrayed before him. The stretching and flattening of coins failed to excite him as greatly as the notion of firing a gun. He was impatient for the train to roar past and perform its strongman magic. He clenched his fists and held his breath.

On came the train. The chug of massive wheel trucks huffed and puffed, cycles of thunder eating the silence. The procession shot by Gregory, velocity blending boxcar panels together, a streaking tapestry of rust and yellow, of gunmetal grey and florescent graffiti.

Under the roar rang a high sharp sound: SSPING!

Gregory felt a hot knife burn through his pocket and across his hip. Shocked and dumbfounded, he sat hard on the gravel. He reached and looked down at himself at the same moment, and as his hand and eyes landed on his left pocket, he saw blood seep from the ripped shorts, staining a thin line across his side. It didn’t hurt yet, but between the blood and pounding noise, Gregory began to cry anyways.

Gregory thought perhaps Clay couldn’t hear him over the passing train racket. He discovered he could move and craned his head to the weeds behind him. Clay was not rushing forth to help Gregory. Nor was he crouching, peeking through the weeds, greedily awaiting his bounty. He was lying flat on his back, two hands to his throat, little waterfalls of red trickling from between his chubby little fingers.

“Clay?”

Gregory hoisted himself up and scrambled to the weeds. A caboose marked the end of the train, and the freight escaped south, leaving a shocking quiet for Gregory and Clay.

Clay’s eyes bulged. He hitched for each breath, wet noises thickening with each stabbing intake of air. As the sound began to resemble a straw in a nearly empty cup, Clay began to roll and buck. He loosened his double-palmed clutch and tried to speak.

“Ulgk! In… mby… droat.”

After the words, which sounded both wet and dry at once, a great wave of blood gurgled forth from Clay’s mouth, washing his entire face red. It even got in his hair. As his drowning commenced, blood bubbles grew from his gaping mouth, where they met with smaller bubbles from his nostrils. Then all would pop and start anew.

“Oh no! No no no! I gotta get help! What do I do?”

Gregory paced, jumped, and squeezed his meager wound all at once, freaking out and totally bewildered. Terrified, too.

Clay still struggled with his neck. A puddle grew under his head. He waved from side to side in it, a jackhammer seesaw in the blood. As his lungs filled up, he began to convulse more violently. Desperate for air, he let go of his throat, his arms waving wildly about pawing at nonexistent wisps.

From a nickel wide diagonal slit in his exposed throat, air began to rush in and out, a sprinkler farting wet raspberry rain with merry immaturity. Clay sat up and then stood, wobbly and unbalanced, his eyes nearing explosion. He looked for Gregory and reached out to him. Gregory stood still, out of reach, looking dumb.

Clay’s eyes rolled up. He pitched forward, dead. Blood kept leaking.

Gregory looked at Clay’s facedown corpse. Under the skin at the back of the neck, he could see the sharp edge of a coin pushing out, stretching the skin nearly to breaking point. The penny had stopped there after ricocheting off the spine.